When I was growing up in California there were
two things that everyone assumed were good for you.
There were, of course, others
— spinach and oatmeal, for instance —
but right now I’m thinking of
sunshine and orange juice. When we
lived at Ocean Park, I was sent out every
morning to the beach where I spent the day
building rolly-coasters in the sand,
complicated downhill tracks with tunnels and
inclines upon which I rolled a small hard
rubber ball. Every day toward noon
I fainted because the sun was too much
for me. When I fainted I didn’t
fall down, but I couldn’t see;
there were flocks of black spots
wherever I looked. I soon learned
to find my way in that blindness to a
hamburger stand where I’d ask for something
to eat. Sitting in the shade,
I’d come to. It took me
much longer, about thirty-five years
in fact, to learn that orange
juice was not good for me either.